A Painted Gesture
by OrisounAsh
Summary: Maybe because he wanted this to be true. He wanted it to be his friend who took the time to erase the marks of violence, and paint them over with glaring colours of national pride. He wanted it to be the man he once knew that took it upon himself to make sure that precious metal would be beautiful and clean.


Embarrassingly enough, the thought had never occurred to him, not until an enamored ten year old asked. For the longest moment, he could only stand and stare at the child as though his mind had ceased to turn; wouldn't be the first time he'd been at a loss for words, but that was the only time he'd been caught without any way to reason it to _himself_, let alone a ten year old admirer.

He'd found his voice, and told the child the application of shield's bright colours was a secret.

The child had grinned knowingly and scampered away.

Now, he isn't a man that misses many things, but that moment had him thinking: how the hell _does_ the shield stay so vibrant?

The thought had plagued him for weeks, on his missions and at home. It was rarely out of his sight, and even then, the disk of rare metal was in his room, or set about his small apartment (made smaller still by the recent addition of his lost-and-found friend). On the times when he needed to be out in public, sans shield, he would set the trusted object on the floor next to the apartment door, a precaution and a form of reassurance; the first thing he touched on the way in to his home was its thin edge, and it brought a comfort he didn't realize he needed.

It is more than human touch could bring, and he had felt keenly its loss to the Potomac.

But more to the point, he couldn't fathom who (or perhaps _what, _he wouldn't put it past Stark) was retouching the shield, and it perplexed him until one rather mundane day.

He had backed himself against the counter in the tiny kitchen, reading the morning paper - Natasha still ribs him about it - when his roommate (friend) had come padding in. The dark hued man had grown more comfortable with displaying his "deformity" - _James_' words, not the Soldier's - and the metal had glinted dully in the weak morning light. When the man had reached for his coffee cup, a vibrant blue swath could be seen marring the silvery tone.

The Captain had almost suffered his first heart attack.

His friend continued on as though nothing were the matter, filling his cup and swiping the sports pages from the counter (left behind for him, like every morning) and retreating to the table squeezed into a nook adjacent the kitchen. It made sense, in a weird way; the times he had been bone tired from a mission, and left his friend and the shield to their own devices for a day of rest, or when he'd gone out for a stroll to himself, and didn't want "Captain" to come before "Rogers". While flipping a page, fumbling the papers, he couldn't decide if he wanted to speak up about it, or simply let the moment slide.

He'd chosen to keep silent, and he is now grateful for that decision.

There had been a call for him, instructing him to meet a few fellow agents to "talk"; he knew the public place would be swamped with onlookers were he to bring his shield. So, as was usual by now, he had returned the disk to its cleared space near the door, running his fingers over it once to remember the feel (as though he needed that comfort anymore). He'd stepped out, carried on with his objective, until another call interrupted his rather enjoyable walk; there would be no meeting. The situation had changed, evidently, and he was no longer needed.

He'd only been gone thirty minutes.

He'd felt like a parent about to sneak in on his unruly child.

It had taken him far less than thirty minutes to make it back to his door.

There had been a slight tremble in his fingers as he'd slid the key home, and he couldn't fathom why. Maybe because he wanted this to be true. He _wanted_ it to be his friend who took the time to erase the marks of violence, and paint them over with glaring colours of national pride. He _wanted_ it to be the man he once knew that took it upon himself to make sure that precious metal would be beautiful and clean.

His hand had steadied, and he'd entered their home.

The Sergeant had been absent, but it didn't take him long to appear from his room, a rather startled - though blank to any other watching - look on his face. It had been obvious the man was caught in the middle of something, but unwilling to make mention of what.

All it had taken was his quick glance to an empty place beside the door for his friend to exhale slowly, and clasp his metal hand into a fist.

Now, they are staring at one another, and it is the Captain that breaks first (is always has been).

He smiles, a half-curl of his lips that said volumes to his roommate. It tells the other man that he knows, he _knows_ what is being hidden from him, and he is okay with it. It tells James that he appreciates more than words the gesture being given - though behind his back - and he is _grateful_. They have been through hell and more in their years, more so for his friend, and this act tells him that James, _Bucky_ is still here, still with him even if only in the small moments he isn't privy to.

He finds his shield much later that night, perfect and bright, leaned against the off-white walls beside the door.

Much, much later he sees a signature scrawled along the inside rim.

_Bucky Barnes was here_.

* * *

Author's End Note: I apologize profusely, because this was supposed to be a completed work, and for some reason said no to that. Apologies to anyone who thought this was an ongoing story. Thank you for the support, regardless.


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